


A Second First Time

by Kit_SummerIsle



Series: Luck of the Draw [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual, Lottery, M/M, Seal-Breaking, Sticky, ideal society AU, luck of the draw AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-05 13:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17325845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle
Summary: Drift has come a long way since he left Ratchet. A long, and crooked way - a career of crime under the alias Deadlock. But this part of his life is also about to end and he must start anew... completely anew.





	1. Drift starts a new life though not entirely on his decision

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, it's the continuation of [Street Rat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711284/chapters/23729172)

_**Warning for the first paragraph in Italics: description of blood &gore - it describes a car-crash scene, so skip it if it's not your thing!** _

\-----------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1: Drift starts a new life though not entirely on his decision

_Everything was pain. He was swimming in it, floating in it, thrown about in jagged, cruel waves that each forced a new scream that could not be aired any more, not with his vocalizer inoperational, not with his vents not working any more… fire licked him like a cruel lover, melting metal dripped and naked wires sparked, shorted, twisted in sympathetic agony… his armour was rent and torn and melted and now his substructure took the force of the subsequent hits of the crash as the shuttle, or rather what remained of it, tumbled down into the rocky ravine. Struts broke and joints snapped, limbs tore free, fire ignited the energon that dripped and splashed everywhere from him and around him, all over the ruined cabin of his vehicle, his coffin he would have thought had the pain not stole all his coherent thoughts. The next tumble smashed him face first into the jagged spurs of torn metal rising from a twisted bulkhead and his optic lenses exploded in a shower of shards and sparks. Vision went roaring and hearing followed it soon after as audials crumpled and each superseded by a silent scream that wished for the agony to end, in the afterworld or this one didn’t matter, just end it all Primus… he never prayed before, but his life refused to flash in front of his blind optics, so Deadlock prayed the best he could as the ruined-melted-ignited fireball of his shuttle came to a screeching halt in the bottom of the ravine, leaving him hanging from the floor-becoming-ceiling, his remaining frame bound there by twisted wires, not a few of them his own and hung over the roaring fire fuelled by his own energon and oil. It was just a matter of time before he melted or burned or exploded, but apparently Primus didn’t see fit to ease his last kliks by loosing consciousness. Then suddenly a strong stream of ice-cold air and fire-suppressant foam came from the outside and it was a surprise - but not a pleasant one. His melting hot frame was caught in the stream and what was left of it exploded in a shower of heat-stressed metallic shards and Deadlock screamed silently again as he disintegrated from inside out, but finally, finally he felt the darkness slowly spread across his meta and the pain started to shrink away..._

When he awoke next it was to no pain – but no sense of frame either. The afterlife?

“Deadlock.”

“It’s… Drift…”

Because if he died, and it was the afterlife he didn’t want to be known as Deadlock. Deadlock was a smuggler and a mercenary, a runaway and a bitter survivor and that life of sin and crime had no place here. Drift was… Drift was almost forgotten, but he was innocent and naïve and that medic long ago told him that he was worth more... So be it – he would be Drift again.

“Drift, then.”

It was a bit strange, to be honest. Drift imagined Primus something… more godly, more… dignified that the cold, tired and harsh voice answering him. But his confusion didn’t last long.

“I’m Enforcer Prowl. You were in a shuttle crash and your frame was mostly obliterated.”

Wait, what? It wasn’t the afterlife, after all?

“I’m… not dead?”

“No, you’re still among the functioning. Barely. At the moment, you consist of a spark chamber and what’s left of your brain module, held in a CR chamber. I'm contacting your processor directly.”

Slag. Drift started to remember the details of the crash and it wasn’t a pleasant memory. He also became acutely aware of his lack of limbs, senses and frame too and that was even more frightening.

“I was tasked to offer you a chance.”

“What chance?”

Drift became suspicious. Enforcers never cut deals out of the goodness of their sparks.

“A chance to live. A new frame and a new life.”

“For what?”

“You give up the life of crime and your contacts. You acquire a job, become a useful member of the society and stay that way.”

“And what’s the other choice?”

“Well. I don’t think you have the funds or the means to afford a full-frame reformat.”

Drift nearly panicked, but he couldn’t even trash with no limbs. It was frightening.

“I can’t stay like this!”

“If you do not repent, then you’ll be tried and convicted ‘as is’ now. Maybe the judges will see fit to give you a very simple frame, like a monoformer or a waste disposal unit? It would be up to them, but nomech wastes a good frame on a criminal with a lengthy prison sentence.”

Slag, slag, slag, slag… but Deadlock had funds, hidden accounts with hard-earned credits and… but how could he reach them with no frame and in prison? And what medic could or would do the rare and complex surgery for a criminal?

“If I agree… what frame would I get? What chance?”

“There’s a fully functional speedster frame right beside the chamber now. Somewhat different from your old one, but it’s customizable and would be yours, no strings attached. Along with a new, clean record and some funds to start a new life. There would be supervision for awhile yet, but only until we can be sure that you don’t relapse.”

He was actually considering it. Not in the least because he already was starting to feel the settling panic for the complete sensory isolation. He couldn’t take it much longer to only have a hardline connection occasionally if somemech wanted to talk to him. And who would want to talk to a convicted criminal? Besides it was a good deal. He had led the Enforcers astray quite a lot of times so it was surprisingly good. They must want his network very badly. And with Turmoil double-dealing him the last time, ending in that spectacular shuttle crash, that network seemed to crumble anyhow… and wouldn’t it be great to let Turmoil be caught by Enforcers? That brute wouldn’t get such a good deal either, not with his far more brutal way of operations. 

He still tried to haggle a bit, but Prowl appeared to anticipate all his tricks and shot them down disconcertingly fast. His no-nonsense demeanor was one of the main reasons Drift eventually gave in and accepted the deal. It was the most believable behaviour he’d ever seen in an Enforcer. He was also uncomfortably aware that the mech could have hacked him if he so wished for the information – his processor was no match for it. That he had chosen not to, vouched for his trustworthiness.

So, he agreed to the deal and fessed up everything he knew. In exchange, he was put under again and the next time he awoke, it was to the blessed aches and pains of a brand new and good-looking frame, some knightly order or somesuch had donated for the witness program. Once he learned to operate it again and the new components settled in, the aches disappeared and when the medics pronounced him to be fully operational, Prowl took him to Cybertron again, to Iacon at that, awakening long-buried memories; and introduced him to a mech called Cyclonus. The dour mech had a small business training and leasing bodyguards for nobles and high-ranking politicians – even in this calm era and general peace, some mechs still feared for their lives, so the business was thriving. 

It appealed Drift too. Training with various weapons was little change from what he did before, while sticking to high-ranking mechs taught him to behave politely in higher company than he was used to. It was good credits too and he didn’t lack for anything. Along with some funds from his previous life, Drift had a comfortable living and though it felt strange to be legal and law-abiding, he didn’t mind the somewhat calmer way of life. Even his parole officer was not bad – Ultra Magnus was strict and almost as dour as Cyclonus, but fair as well and in turn Drift never lied to him or tried to reconnect his former circles.

He was guarding a young noblemech this evening, for the mech wanted to spend his Matching night at a public party with his friends and his Sire wanted him to be extra protected. Drift was sure that there weren’t actually any safer places on Cybertron – or off of it – than Matching parties, but he didn’t say so. Credits were credits and easy jobs meant less helmaches. Besides it was ages since he was at a party with such a young crowd and it was rejuvenating to see Cybertron’s next generation. His charge got a good match when the time came and he was happy for it, so the party was even livelier as drinks got consumed and outrageously happy young mechs danced-talked-waited…

… until he got a ping where he didn’t expect it at all from. He still kept that old datapad in a nearly forgotten depth of his subspace, the one that announced Ratchet, the mech he had so much to thank for, even if he didn’t quite follow his advice… but why was it pinging him all of a sudden?

“Hey, Drift, you didn’t tell me you were still an untouched!”

The white mech scowled at his exuberant youngster charge. Not much, because it was impolite, but enough to show what he didn’t say.

“I’m nearly a million vorn old, Windshear. I’ve had my fair share of lovers, you can be sure of that.”

“Well, that’s still your datapad pinging.”

It was, Drift had to admit. But it had to be a mistake, a malfunction of an old datapad…

“It’s nothing.”

“Check it out, mech! It’s the night of Matching! Kind of curious to have your special datapad malfunction just this night, ehh?”

“I’ve had my mentor eons ago, Windshear. Nomech gets two.”

Windshear pouted, but he went back to dancing with his friends and Drift, after a few breems of debating pros and cons, fished out the battered, old datapad from his subspace pocket. It was pinging insistently but no obvious error messages appeared on the cracked, scratched screen. Frowning, Drift cast a covert look at his charge, safely away and thumbed the pad online. 

“What the everloving slag?”

He couldn’t wait for the party to end, deliver Windshear safely to his Creators and get home to have a shouting match with the Matching services. It was disconcerting that he was robbed of that chance. The mech he was connected to was unflappably calm, even in the face of Drift swearing and shouting at him.

“I’m afraid there is no mistake, Mr. Drift. You are listed as a vornling and that means you must be matched to a mentor. All seems in order from here. Unless you wish a new match…?”

The condescending, patient tone made Drift’s audials prick up and his vocalizer to growl again.

“But I’m not a vorn old!”

“Your frame’s factory datastamp tells it clearly. You are one vorn, two and a quarter groon old.”

“But it was just a reformat!”

“The frame is still new with seals.”

It was like arguing with the wall. Drift felt a not-so-rare urge to hit something. Or somemech. He shut down the comm and vented heavily, conjuring curses from his wide repertoire. He was getting nowhere. Everyone he spoke of insisted that he needed a mentor and what was his problem anyhow? Even Ultra Magnus was not sympathetic to his plight and told him to acquiesce. He knew full-frame reformats were extremely rare. He had a few bureaucratic problems at first, starting anew, also concerning his age and true, the new frame did come with factory seals which he haven’t got rid of yet. But he would have never thought of… this. It was plain stupid. He was not a dainty mechling fumbling when another touched him. But nomech else saw is as a problem.

By the time the next comm call pinged him, Drift was ready to roar and tell whoever it was to go to the Pit.

“Drift?”

He was about to yell back a curse when the caller’s visual got through to his processor and he shut up with a screech of feedback from his vocalizer. The face on the screen was…

… it was…

…it was beautiful. Drift gaped mutely and reset his optics.

“Are you… Drift?”

Worried golden optics searched his face and frowned slightly as his vocalizer appeared to be stuck and his curses evaporated like dry ice on a hot day.

“Are you… all right?”

“W-who the slag are you?”

The mech on the screen blinked but a faint smile appeared on the gorgeous face.

“My designation is Wing. I am to be your mentor, as you should have already received notice…?”

Drift gaped again. He was so ready to tell his prospective mentor to go to the Pit and maybe add some more colourful insults for good measure…

…but he just couldn’t utter any of those. Or anything else for that matter. Not into that innocent-earnest – plain gorgeous, his processor whispered in the background – face and those wide, naive, honest golden optics...

“I… yeah…?”

The smile brightened and Drift stared. It was infectious. Really. It was. His lips started to curve in answer, even though smiling was not very much not in his mood that day.

“Excellent!” The mech chirped happily and seemed oblivious of his dark, though quickly smoothing mood. “I’m in Iacon too, so we can meet any time you wish to.”

Drift tried to hold onto his indignation, but it was increasingly hard. 

“B-but I’m not… I’m…”

“Is there a problem?”

Drift tore his optics from that concerned golden gaze and found his voice. And his fury again.

“Slagitall, I’m millions of vorns old and got my mentor eons ago, it is all just a stupid bureaucratic fuckup…”

“Ohh…” Wing appeared shocked. Drift felt bad for yelling at him. “But… you’re DRIFT, aren't you?”

He enunciated Drift’s full, legal designation glyphs carefully. 

“Yeah, that’s me.” Drift sighed. “Look, I was reformatted a little while ago, a full frame reformat due to an accident and this idiot system apparently cannot handle that. I just spent this orn shouting at bureaucrats to no avail. They are all determined to handle me as a vorn old mechling.”

The look on Wing’s face was worthy of a study, complex emotions warring for dominance from surprised shock till exuberant mirth. Drift scowled at the smirk and sighed at the shock – he was getting tired of the whole issue.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say… it’s certainly a unique situation.”

“Yeah, tell me.”

“But I think the easiest solution is just to… go with it?”

“But I’m not…!”

“I understood you. Still. Is your equipment still… sealed?”

Drift scowled. He suddenly wished if he had broken those slagging seals earlier. 

“Yeah…”

“Then I see no problem. We can spend a night together, have fun getting rid of your seals and all the bureaucratic red tape will be satisfied. Hopefully along with ourselves.” Wing fell silent for a nanoklik, dentae worrying his lipplates. “That is… unless you have an objection to… me, specifically…?”

“What...? No, no, of course not!”

The infectious smile returned in full force and Drift couldn't help but feel it warm his cynical processor. 

“Then I see no problem. Can we meet tomorrow, at... the eighth joor maybe?”

Drift nodded hesitantly, slowly warming to the idea – not the least because of the flier's undeniable charms that came across even the communicator clearly. 

“I have to check, because I usually work evenings – parties and such, so my employer might have a say about it.”

“No problem!” Wing chirped happily – it appeared to be his base nature much as cynicism was Drift's – and smiled at him.” Just tell me in time if you can't make it!”

"I will."

"Well... See you then, Drift!"

Drift ended the comm and sighed. It appeared that he was going to get a second... a second first time. Which sounded all stupid and slag, but... it was still true.


	2. Drift is nervous, though he has no reason to be and it passes quickly anyway

“You are of course excused for the night.” Cyclonus didn't appear either surprised or disapproving at the news. “The law declares that for Matching any employee is entitled to fully paid time off. Enjoy it.”

“Thanks... I guess.”

He didn't expect it to be this easy, but Cyclonus was totally accommodating, shifting his required stints further the week and giving him not just the required free time but more. Drift commed to Wing, informing him that he was available and they agreed to meet at a stylish little café in the Primal Quarter – a fairly upscale one, but Drift has been there before on work and Wing apparently with his associates and they both liked its atmosphere.

Drift then went to a design saloon – calling himself an idiot all the while, because he only did so before a particularly snobbish noble required his services, but he wanted to look... nice? The flier, Wing looked like he was a noble himself, though he didn't say so, but the quality of his frame certainly hinted at it. So he ordered a full detailing and endured the poking and prodding – no, thank you, he didn't want new colours, just to refresh this set, let's get it over with, shall we?! - and he was glad for it even. It took his processor off of Wing, which was getting pretty annoying, what with how nervous it made him. Why should he be nervous, Drift didn't know. Certainly, an interface was nothing new and even the first time was to be, well, his second first time. If that was even an existing concept. So there was absolutely no reason to be... what, afraid of it? No, he was definitely not afraid. 

But still, in the end he had to calm his nerves with a shot of fine high-grade, even before he left for their meeting. It helped a little, just like the good-natured, but still pretty serious bit of racing he got into on the major thoroughfare into the inner city – a sleek, blue mech, obviously a pure Racer model left him behind embarrassingly fast on the initial straight, but he caught up when they got into the twisting, mazelike inner city roads, and in the end, there was an almost friendly lights-flashing exchange at each other, in the universal language of street-racers... and Drift was in a much better mood when he transformed back in front of the café and waved at the passing blue mech on his own way further. 

The nerves hit him again as he stepped into the café and saw Wing sitting by a table in the corner and Drift frowned at himself. Why was he so nervous again? But he didn't have time to ponder on this, because the flier glanced his way and that impossible cheerful, open and infectious smile shone again... and something in Drift's spark smiled back. 

“Hello, Drift.”

His voice was even more beautiful than in the comm, musical even. And his optics, their liquid gold shone and spoke to him and he was diving into their depth... until they widened questioningly and Drift realized that he was mutely standing there, staring at him for... what, kliks, like an idiot? 

“Uhh... sorry... I'm just... hello, Wing.”

Damnit, he was really behaving like a lovesick teenager on their first date! It was embarrassing!

“I know that it's a bit awkward, but please consider this just like we met in... some other way? If that makes it better?”

“Uhh... yeah... I can do that...” He was still out of sorts and he didn't understand why. “I mean, I don't mind meeting you at all, no matter this stupid reason. You look... nice.”

He veered away from beautiful, because... he wasn't sure why. But Wing continued to smile blindingly and Drift could watch that amazing smile for joors...

“Thank you! You look great as well. In fact... your frame is somewhat familiar, like I've seen you before somewhere...?”

“Nah, we've never met. I'd remember you if we did.”

“It's not an Iacon frame design, anyhow. Where are you from?”

Drift sighed. But it was no secret any more and he was not embarrassed about it!

“Originally from Rodion City. But the frame came from... actually, I don't know where it was designed. I got it through... charity from some religious order?”

“Oh! Then that's why it's familiar! I belong to the Order of the Light and your frame was probably made by us! I'm so happy for you if that is so!”

Drift nodded, smiled back – his nervousness was fading, though not yet disappearing, but Wing's brightness was just... impossible to resist. And if his frame was from his order, then...

“I owe you then, for my frame. It's amazing.”

“No, no, you don't owe us anything! It was freely offered up and I'm glad that it found an owner who needed it.”

The strange thing was that Drift actually believed him. Strange, because he never before believed in true altruism – in his experience, every mech did things with a background, mostly selfish motive. But Wing was... impossibly, almost painfully open and honest, naive almost and Drift couldn't, for the life of him do anything else than believe him. And it was a queer thing. He wasn't sure how to react to it.

“You don't have to, in any way.” Wing shrugged easily, still smiling. “The frame is yours, you wear it well and that's it. Lets drink to it, if you wish to?”

“Sure!” He could do that. “So... are you often mentoring young mechs?”

It was a pretty obvious attempt at steering the conversation into another course, but Wing took it in stride. He giggled as he answered.

“Every vorn! I seem to be very popular with the Matching computers.”

That, Drift could easily believe. With a sunny personality that the flier had, if he was any good in interfacing, he would make a fine mentor. So at least they would have no problem with the physical part...

“I never got picked for mentor before... before the reformat. I mean... well, I wasn't a very law-abiding mech. But I stay on this side of the law now.”

Wing glanced at him interested, though a bit subdued.

“It wasn't in your file.”

“No, I got clean records for a deal. I never killed mechs or anything like that... but I guess I wasn't the kind of role-model a mentor should be.”

“You know... during the orn, I got an anonymous message from somemech. They warned me about you, though nothing solid, just that I should be... vary.”

Drift frowned. There weren't a whole lot of mechs who knew about Wing, so... which one of them would think of warning him of Drift's past? Cyclonus just didn't appear to be the kind and frankly neither did Ultra Magnus. Though the latter would, if there was a rule about dangerous mecha being matched to unaware citizens...? It was possible, but then, he wouldn't do it anonymously.

“So... why did you come then?”

Wing shook his helm, his smile a bit subdued, but not disappearing entirely. Drift started to think that it was a constant feature of his faceplates... nomech could be that happy all the time!

“I don't trust somemech who doesn't put their designation to their opinion.” He answered seriously. “I checked your file and it didn't tell anything. But you are obviously in the system, so... I decided to trust this... lack of information. And you don't strike me as... bad.”

Drift swallowed his mouthful of high-grade and silently gave thanks to Prowl for the clean criminal records. Suddenly, it felt intolerable to think that Wing almost didn't come to meet him... 

“I'm... glad that you decided to chance on me.” He tried to phrase it as a joke. “No matter the original reason, I'm... glad to meet you.”

Wing answered him another of those blinding smiles and Drift reached across the table and took hold of his servo. Just gently, lightly, with a questioning glance, but Wing didn't take it away so he was emboldened. Stroking the slender digits came naturally and when Wing's other servo settled on his lightly, like a mechabutterfly, and their digits entwined, slid on each other, discovered each other... and words were suddenly not that necessary any more. 

Wing slid closer to him and slender wings loosened from their tuck on his back plates, gently swaying and trembling and Drift cautiously fondled it with his other servo, fascinated by the impossibly delicate metal, so much unlike the robust plates of Seeker wings...

“What kind of a flier are you? I've never seen such wings...”

“I'm a stunt jet.” Wing laughed, a bit breathlessly. “Many said so that they are not even wings, just overgrown spokes. “

“They are interesting... and very sensitive, I guess.” 

The wing twitched and trembled as he fondled it and Wing's golden optics darkened subtly. His laugh turned deeper too and he nudged Drift's side playfully.

”They are... and we had better take this to my place, if you keep doing that...”

Drift couldn't agree more. They left the café faster than it was polite, barely stopping to pay their drinks and Wing led him to his hotel, fortunately very close. Fortunately, because Drift kept molesting his wings and though Wing had absolutely no protests about it, some of the other passersbys cast them disapproving glances.

“Well, it's their problem.”

Wing laughed as they stumbled into the hotel's lobby and informed the receptionist that it was a Matching invite, and didn't wait for any answer before ducking into the lift. Once there, Drift again captured his mouth for a quick kiss... one that soon become deeper and he didn't really want to stop when the lift deposited them to their floor. 

“Finally...”

“You become quite eager...”

“I changed my processor. Getting rid of my new seals is important and becoming urgent too.” 

Drift joked back and herded the laughing jet further into the room, towards the large berth while roaming his servos all over the angular planes of his slender, but strong, beautiful frame. His equipment was suddenly signalling its presence under the seals, throbbing, itching, eager to get in use. Since Drift had plenty of memories of interfacing, it was a strange double sensation – his new frame acting like it was the first time, while his processor supplied plenty of experiences...

“Can't have poor untouched waiting...”

Wing gave as good as he got in touching and kisses but let Drift steer them towards their goal. He laughed again as the back of his knees hit the edge and let himself fall back, pulling the heavier mech with him. Their half-controlled fall ended up with them tangled completely on the berth with Drift smugly on top, his larger frame covering the slender jet almost completely. The heat between them just grew with several degrees.

“You see, the point would be for me to teach you...” Wing snarked at him, though he wasn't seriously trying to reverse their position. “Can't do much teaching if you hold me down like this.”

“I told you, I don't need teaching.” Drift wasn't bothered by the jet's words. He was obviously just joking and the way their frames rubbed, it was doing familiar things to his frame, his spike...

“And your spike has just took matters into its own, well, servo, I see.” 

Wing laughed as a slight pinch of pain flashed through Drift's face and his spike extended swiftly from behind it, tearing through the seal entirely on its own.

“Slag... I didn't remember that.”

But the pain was gone fast as he rubbed his now fully hardened spike on the jet's hot, but still closed panel.

“Are you gonna let me... umm, learn?... how to spike?”

Wing laughed out loud and his panel snapped open. 

“So this is how you gonna play it...?” His valve was plenty wet already and Drift groaned as he slid his shaft over the slick folds. “In that case, youngling, this, here is your spike and this is my valve. Now, since we are both lubed sufficiently, let you put tab A into slot B.... carefully and...”

“Oh shut up!” Drift kissed the jet, because it was a bit more annoying than funny and reminded him uncomfortably to the medical information datapad Ratchet gave him the first time, when he was... Drift shook his helm, banished the memories and nudged the head of his spike among the folds of Wing's valve. 

“That's... ummm... a good way to... shut me up...” Wing moaned deeply and wriggled under him. “You can go on, I can take it... I want to feel you inside...”

Drift didn't need a lot of encouragements. The jet was slick and hot and welcoming and he thrust inside, groaning at the tightness, the heat, the way the calipers gripped his length... 

“Wiiing...” he nearly whimpered when the calipers undulated, doing incredible things to his spike. Drift saw stars and shouted as his charge suddenly skyrocketed. But he wasn't to be overdone. Circling his hips he countered the maddening calipers and caused Wing to moan deeply again.

“That's it, yes, doing so well, go on, Drift...!”

Wing was babbling and Drift couldn't help but be annoyed by the encouragement and appraisal – it showed that the jet was often a mentor and used to having inexperienced partners who needed them. But Drift didn't. With a final push he hilted his spike and they moaned in unison at the sensation. 

“Yes, you can move now, it's okay to...”

“Will you... shut... up... with this... unhhh... stupid... slag?

He punctuated his words with forceful thrusts and hot kisses and Wing laughed into both and finally, finally stopped encouraging him and reciprocated. They fell into a steady rhythm fast, like they knew each other for a long time instead of meeting a few joors ago, and Drift pondered about it, while he still could – by nature he wasn't a trusting, easily opening up type and he knew that. But Wing was different. The jet was so honest and open and optimistic, the polar opposite of himself... and like their opposites complemented each other, like they belonged to each other...

“Wiiing...!”

All too soon he reached his climax, the newly unsealed equipment being a lot more sensitive than he remembered... and embarrassingly, he couldn't take Wing with him into an overload, the jet obviously close, but not quite there yet. Drift panted and sagged onto the squirming jet, just about to babble some excuse or apology when those maddening-amazing calipers came to life around him again, undulating, tightening, stoking his charge again, hardening him again until he could move and thrust and Wing grabbed and fondled his audials, like he knew that they were his most sensitive point and it brought them both into a climax faster than he had thought possible...

“Uunhhh...” Drift said eloquently when he came to his senses next.

Wing laughed again, his tingling, pearly laugh that warmed something deep inside him that was not physical and Drift didn't know what it was, just that it felt even better than the overloads. He rolled to the side, panting, holding onto Wing still and he was, well, not usually this cuddly, but it felt so good to hold onto the jet, to feel his hot frame close, to have his warm exvents tickle his audials... and to feel his knowing but not judging optics on him and not be embarrassed by any of those things.

“I think that was a pretty good first time, ehh?”

“If I admit that it was slagging amazing, will you stop acting like that it's my first time...?”

“Sure, sure...” Wing kissed him to silence and Drift eagerly took it for what it was. He wasn't really annoyed, the grumbling was mostly for show.

“I can hardly wait for the second part.”

“You a spike mech?”

“I don't mind either way.” Wing shrugged against the covers as they lay there, tangled among them and fondled Drift's audial a bit more. “But I'd love to see you brought to pleasure with my spike.”

Drift was silent for a few kliks. He wasn't a valve mech by preference but it wasn't a particular no-no either. He just couldn't imagine that after two such overloads Wing could make the third round even better... especially since it included breaking the valve seals.

“Okay...”

“Hey... it's not an obligation.” Wing stared at him seriously from close-up, both of them still panting a bit from their earlier romp and Drift shrugged back. “No, it's really not. If you don't want it now...”

“I do! I'm not preferring my valve, is all.”

“I see... then I must strive to show you just how slagging good that can be, now, am I?”

Drift smirked back at the mock-serious jet. Oh, so it was now a challenge to him? Better than the teaching slag, at least.

“Weeelll... if you put it that way... bring it on then.”

He still gave a surprised yelp when Wing easily rolled them over and came up straddling his hips. The jet was definitely stronger than he looked...

… and he knew just where to touch, how to reach nodes that fired amazing sensations to his processor, just how to find the tiniest gaps in his armor and twang cables underneath, how to counterpoint it all with kisses trailing down his neck, chest and around the curves of the abdominal plates, following them to his crotch, light, sharp, tiny bites interspersing the kisses, and Drift could only cling and moan and take it... he had considered himself well-versed in interfacing but Wing was just showing him something even more, things that he never thought of, never experienced before...

… then Wing licked his panel and his spike was so eager and hard again and the jet's subtle laughter made him tremble as the vibrations did something wicked to it. Drift bucked up, not even consciously wanting it, just wanting... something, more than the maddeningly light, amazingly hot touches and licks... but Wing just gave a parting lick to his eagerly bobbing spike and despite of the whine from Drift he ducked even lower.

”Wiiing... please...!”

“I promised...” Wing's voice was a bit muffled coming from between his legs but it travelled through his equipment and made him groan again... “...it'll be great, I promise...”

And he started to lick and kiss his valve panel and it snapped open so fast, like never before in his life and he didn't even had to consciously open it... Wing poked inside with his glossa and circled the rim and Drift shouted as it nearly made him overload in sudden onslaught of sensations. Then, on the heel of this came another jagged lighting of pleasure when the jet sucked... suckled!... his outer node and Drift lost it...

“AAAAHHHHHHHH!”

When he came to again, it was still Wing licking him, eating him out like his valve was a fine treat and Drift nearly catapulted into his next overload straight away. He never before experienced his valve being so sensitive, stimulation there being so intense, not even with professional pleasurebots. But Wing kept on to his task like he could do it till the end of the world and before he could even think of his seal, Drift was brought to overload the second time and he couldn't believe it, but he experienced it, so it was real, but it was still like a dream. A very hot and messy dream that went on and on and on...

“Wing... p-please...”

He felt Wing's wicked smirk against his hot equipment. The slagging jet didn't even touch his spike for awhile, he suddenly realized.

“Please what?”

“S-stop torturing me!” He could barely lift his helm as he lay there, gasping for cooler air.

“Ohh? I thought you were enjoying it?” A glossa flicked against his spike like pointing at it and the mess on Drift's abdomen that he made there himself. 

“I do! Did! Just... I want you in me, like... NOW!” Drift didn't care any more than he was down to begging and proved wrong anyhow. Each overload was better than the previous one but suddenly he realized that he wanted Wing to truly, really, properly spike him. To thrust in and fill him, all that slag he was secretly a bit anxious about. But not anymore.

Wing fortunately refrained from saying _Itoldyouso_ , just laughed again, mouth and glossa still on his nub, which made him groan and shudder deeply, before it parted with a final kiss and the jet slowly raised himself on Drift's limp frame. His face was a mess of lubricant and transfluid and he was grinning like a wirecat.

“I think I can do that. Now that you ask me so... nicely.”

He had a nice, mostly black spike with so many colourful whorls and nubs and ridges, it was more like an art piece than a functional spike. Wing just shrugged at his incredulous look and rubbed it on his still overly sensitive outer node, eliciting another moan. He snickered as he answered the unasked question.

“I was convinced not too long ago to try a few mods. A friend's idea... and one I didn' regret...”

Even as he was speaking, right when Drift didn't expect it, totally unlike his usual, easygoing-friendly-gentle demeanor, he suddenly thrust his spike home and tore through the seal in a single, decisive stroke. Drift curved up at the sudden shock and the flash of pain and Wing held him back down gently but firmly, held himself still until the sudden sting was fading back and the fullness took its place.

“Sorry...” Wing, too panted at the tight grip of his calipers and from the effort of keeping still despite of his own instincts to move. ”I came to learn that it's the best way to deal with a seal. The pain passes quickly.”

“I... uhh... know... it's... okay.”

His calipers loosened their grip and Wing experimentally pulled out a little, slowly, carefully. The sting was still there, but the newly reawakened nodes inside his valve were slowly firing up, the sensations from the friction were quickly washing it out. Wing felt it too and he moved back, making Drift groan. From then on their pace was picking up quickly and the pain forgotten fast. Wing was as masterful with his spike as he was with his glossa, Drift soon discovered. The relatively simple act of _thrust in and out and let friction handle itself_ was embellished with movements and tricks that made him literally see stars and overload yet again, embarrassingly fast. 

Of course Drift blamed it on the new, untouched sensors. 

Wing just giggled lightly and went on making him a hot mess. 

But he couldn't blame the next three overloads on the new sensors any more and by the time Wing shouted his designation and finally came to, he was a hot and jelly-like mess of a speedster, barely able to do more than moan and pant and occasionally shout and love Wing for it all... 

The next day, Drift proceeded to show him that he could learn. 

The next after that Wing smugly taught him new tricks. 

The third orn they agreed that it was not a contest. 

It took a bit longer to realize that they practically lived together and it became a lot more than just the amazing interfaces. Mostly for Drift. But he came around too. 


End file.
